Paper Cuts
by WeAllLoveHiccup
Summary: If someone said the name Astrid Hofferson, you'd know who they meant. Strong, athletic, popular and stunningly, dangerously beautiful. Her nicknames range from 'cold hearted bitch' to 'the girl of my dreams'. If someone said Hiccup Haddock- Sorry, who? But until him, no one dared to wonder that maybe, just maybe, it's purely all for show.
1. Paper Planes

**Hello! It's me, back with another dark modern au! (Yep, trying something toootally different this time) (hehe, what's a comfort zone?) It's loosely based off the concept for Chasing Thunderstorms by Foxy'sgirl which, by the way, is and probably always will be my favourite fanfic ever. However, I'm going to take it in a completely different direction. So come on in, I hope you enjoy!**

Astrid pulled down the long sleeves of her thin but stiflingly warm red sweater. It was swampingly baggy on her thin figure, coming to her thighs where mostly comfortable, warn and ripped jeans started. Even so, she felt exposed.

She knew everyone was watching her.

She knew they were analysing every little part of her.

Some with disdain, some with awe, some with undisguised lust and some with complete, bitter hatred; but everyone had an opinion.

A familiar mop of auburn caught her eye. That pale, nerdy looking guy she didn't know the name of but saw every day. Oh, she wished she was him. No one looked at him twice, no one stared, no one judged. His thin shoulders were hunched protectively and he curled in on himself, looking wary and a little bit pathetic. She wished she could do that too. But no, her back was painfully straight and she was striding purposefully to class like she owned the school, not because she thought she did, but because she couldn't afford not to. Couldn't afford to let her impenetrable mask slip even for a second. Because she knew she was being watched by the whole school and any wrong move would be pounced on, the vultures diving in to peck apart the pieces.

So she strode through, steadfastly ignoring everyone and pretending to be innocent to the sneers and giggles, all the stupid, usual reactions to her entrance. No one reacted to _his_ entrance. If he missed a school day, the only ones who would notice may be his physics teacher and his fat blond friend. If she missed a day of school, the rumours would range from kidnapping by a world renowned criminal to skiving off to go graffiti on walls and learn parkour to a fight with a circus ringleader to terminal cancer and anything in between. Ha, if only they knew the _real_ reason she usually missed school.

That would shut them up.

After stalking through the crowd and slamming her locker with satisfying force, she took her usual seat beside Rachel who chattered on about the latest destruction her twin brother caused, the finer points of the polish accent and how she should totally cut her hair to look like Marilyn Monroe. Or maybe not.

"Hey, Ruff?"

"Yeah?"

"Shut up."

To be fair, she expected the kick to her ankle, just as Ruffnut expected the jab to her side and they both totally anticipated the way the teacher would turn a blind eye and let them continue their childish squabble. And thus began another day in the _oh so perfect_ life of Astrid Hofferson.

 **Please review, I'll update as soon as I can.**


	2. Paper Dolls

**This whole thing is basically just some rough ramblings I couldn't be bothered to edit.**

Astrid sat at her usual table with Ruffnut, a spiky breeze making her wish, not for the first time, that she'd brought a scarf. Not that she was already probably wearing more clothes than half the school combined. She didn't know when 'summer' outfits crossed into 'how-slutty-can-I-look' outfits, but she did know that _Heather_ was a prime example. There she was, giggling that horrible, high, fake giggle that the boys seemed to drool over and twiddling her hair in faux nervousness. You know, because that's _cute_. Then she leaned down and fastened that falsely red, plump mouth of hers to a defined cheek she knew far too well.

Snotlout Jorgensen. The dreamily muscled, shallow jock with a one track mind and the body of a Greek god. Or so everyone thinks.

Right at the start of last year, he asked her on a date. It was an horribly embarrassing, short speech full of false bravado that she's sure would make even him cringe if she was to play it back to him. Mainly wanting to get rid of him, she gave him her number and said she'd think about it. Classic.

After mulling over the pros and cons, she decided a date and a meaningless shag with the resident jock could only be good for her status, and would offset the rumours of her virginity. Not that being a virgin in itself was a bad thing, (many, many times she wished she still was) but in the hormonal minds of 16 year olds, It's equated with weakness and self confidence issues. Neither of which are a good thing for the image of 'Astrid Hofferson'. So, she accepted.

At first, the date went as expected. He picked her up in an expensive looking car of some brand she probably should know and he took her to a nice enough restaurant where she ordered a salad. Classic.

He then talked her ear off about random shallow topics that she had no interest in and made it abundantly clear that this whole thing was just foreplay. He then asked her to split the bill (despite the fact she'd only had a salad and water) and they sat through a rather uncomfortable, silent car ride back to his place, which was also silent with all the lights off.

He unlocked the door and awkwardly offered her a drink, which she declined. They almost embarrassingly quickly ended up on the couch with her on top of him controlling a rather sloppy kiss. It was a wonderful, novel thing, control. She'd never had any semblance of control in these areas before. In all truth, he was a pretty bad kisser and tasted horrible but she didn't have many to compare him too. Her first kiss had been a boy in primary school that pecked her on the lips and her second (and last, until now) had been a drunken snog with Ruffnut as a dare. But she'd never controlled _sex_ before. By the way he was acting, it seemed like she might. They just did that until it became rather awkward and she decided she should probably do something about the bulge in his pants. It had been there for a while, and as soon as she felt it, any excitement at her first real kiss had faded and just become.. grey. She felt the distance growing, the wall rising the way it always did when anything like this happened. It was a job now, a duty. She would just get him off and when she was done she would go. Simple. She knew what to do and she knew how to do it. She didn't like it, but it was... easy. Almost comfortable. Then she noticed that Snotlout looked anything but comfortable. The weird look in his eyes sent her crashing back to earth far too fast, like pins and needles to a numb limb.

"What?" She had snapped, harsher than she intended.

"Err.. uhm.." He was red faced with his eyes on anything but her and looked distinctly... embarrassed?

"What is it?" She asked more softly, uncertain.

"I've err.. " he took a deep breath. "I've never done this before."

"What! You? Really?" Totally eloquent.

"I know. I err... I kissed a girl before and she told me I was so bad at it and I.. Oh gods it was so embarrassing so I've never done it again."

"Why did you ask me then?"

"Well.. you know.."

She could have laughed. She would have laughed, if it weren't for the look in his eyes. She did know. It was all about status and saving face. People were so fickle, they could be singing the praises of someone and the next day they could be worthy of being spat on and trampled on, and for popular people like them, it was even worse. That nerdy kid could fuck up and no one would care, but if one of them did it would be all over the school before you could say "oops".

"Well how about I teach you."

"What?" He looked strange, the big, powerful jock that she'd only ever seen shooting massive winning goals, underneath her, between her legs and staring at her with big hopeful eyes.

"This is just as good for me as it is for you. Let's 'go out'. I'll teach you what girls like and you teach me what guys like. Deal?"

"Uh.. sure."

Well.. it was certainly a unique first date. They 'went out' for a few months and he actually got quite skilled. Of course it wasn't a real relationship; they didn't cuddle under the stars or go for walks through the autumn leaves or on the beach at sunset. There was no cute photos of them together because they never did anything cute. She did things to him that made her feel sick and he did things to her that made her feel sick. However, it could have been much worse if he was just a little less dumb. There were a few incidents of properly _awesome_ hand shaped rock bruises and _cool looking_ angular cuts from _slipping_ on a glass bottle and shattering it, all by herself! Yep, it could have been much, much worse. Then, their relationship having fulfilled its purpose, they parted ways with an undramatic breakup for some cliche reason even she couldn't remember.

She'd never had another boyfriend after that; she hadn't needed one. Astrid Hofferson had dated Snotlout Jorgensen. Done. She certainly didn't _need_ anyone and besides, she probably wouldn't find anyone else _quite that_ dumb.

"Hey, Astrid!"

"Huh?"

"Goodness me, I've been calling you for the last five minutes! Where'd you go, Sweden?"

"Sorry Ruff, What were you saying?"

"Gods. I was saying I hope you remember we've got a meet after school today to work on our skills. The Westleigh run is coming up and you know there will be some big schools there with even bigger scholarships! But now my point is mute. You clearly need me to follow you around and remind you to tie your shoelaces and drink water."

She didn't dignify that with a response. Well, not a verbal one.

 **The next chapter should clear up the actual point to this story... hopefully. An awkward side hug to anyone who reviews!**


	3. Paper Thin

**Hello again. Today, we run.**

Astrid's heart pounded as she raced around the corner. A familiar ache of pain had long settled in her hip and her knee was starting to throb too, all three places she could feel working, pulsing, _living_. She hated this really, it _hurt_ most of all and made her feel horribly sick. Some days she wished she could just roll over and curl up in bed instead of running hills and ridiculous times in the frosty morning air just so she'd be able to keep up at the next meet. But a larger part of her absolutely loved it.

It was exhilarating - there was nothing quite like the feeling of tape cracking across your sweaty, aching, mud-caked body- and it made her feel alive. This was something she did for herself, not because her father told her to do it or her friends told her to do it or society told her to do it. There was nothing at all flattering or pretty about running; you made disgusting faces and sounds and it was bloody from scraped knees and muddy from boggy fields and everything she's not supposed to be.

However, it made all the lies, the pain and everything fake she had to pull off suddenly worth it when she felt her heart beating in her chest like a sound drum, every run a victory march setting off a chant in her head of ' _I'm winning. I'm alive. I'm ALIVE. My heart is beating. I made it. I kept myself alive. I'm winning this._ ' So she focused on her heartbeat and nothing else until that wonderful little beep of her stopwatch sounded and she practically collapsed in front of the nearest water bottle.

The tendons in her knee had now become sharp shards of glass, metal swords slicing through her muscles. It was alright, though. She was used to pain. The euphoria of how _fucking great_ it had felt to be moving was catching up and she had to school her features from becoming a wide, goofy smile. She was still in school after all.

A familiar, pale hand knocked against her shoulder. "Nice run, killer!"

Astrid growled softly. "And I suppose you were pretty slow, _Rachel_?"

The next knock against her shoulder gained rather a lot more intent.

"Excuse you miss I-run-20-miles-every-morning-before-I-get-dressed, I was like 18 seconds behind you and Do Not Call Me Rachel!"

"Why not? You seem perfectly comfortable giving me crazy-ass nicknames."

"The death glare is not really helping your point, killer."

Her elbow found its way into Ruff's ribs with quite a lot of intent as well.

"Go get me some ice, Ruffie."

Despite her grumbling of 'what did your last slave die of?', Ruffnut did. She wrapped up Astrid's knee rather well, too. Then Astrid reminded Ruffnut to drink water. Not patronisingly at all.

Just as mothers do.

oOo

"Astrid?"

The athlete in question turned around to see a familiar tallish woman with plain, uniform features and that infernal flowery handbag.

"Yes Ms Parkinson?"

"Why don't we chat in my office for a bit?"

"Sure." _I would hate nothing more.._

Her office smelled like she'd just smoked and then sprayed a rip off Dettol spray around, like always. She sat on that stained old navy blue chair with her garish yellow coat slung over it, like always. And she plastered that maddening I-really-care-about-the-money-I'm-getting-paid-to-do-this smile on her face. Like always.

"So, I've heard a lot about your running times from all of our PE department." _I'm sure you have._

"I've also heard you're trying for a scholarship after Westleigh." _Really? You don't live under a rock?_

"I think that's wonderful." _Good for you._

"But" _here we go..._

"The options you took look very one sided to any school. They'd be looking for a well rounded person with talents in a range of fields, not just a good runner."

"It's a running scholarship. I have to be a good runner, not a good artist."

"Of course you have to be a good runner, Astrid, which you are. However, everyone going for the placement will be good runners. You need something unique about you that sets you apart from the others." _Uh.. would winning the whole bloody race do it?_

"Think about it this way. If you were an employer, would you rather take on someone who took just running related subjects or someone with a broader spectrum?"

"The runner, of course. Shows dedication."

"True, but your skill and rank from the race will show your dedication." _What the hell are you getting at?!_

"I know you don't quite understand, " _Thanks a lot. Old bat._

"But I promise you this will help you. As you mentioned art, I am going to replace your advanced PE theory classes with art for this term."

"What? What does being able to shade myself looking stressed without finger smudges prove about my running ability? I can't draw to save my life!"

"Well you're going to have to learn. Just take some initiative, practice and enjoy learning a new skill!"

"But.."

"If you're really struggling, we'll get you a tutor. But that's all for now, Astrid, you better get going. Good luck at Westleigh!"

"Yeah... thanks. Have a nice day, Ms Parkinson." _Bitch_.

As if there wasn't enough obstacles between her and getting out of this hell, but now she had to revisit the one subject she completely failed at and had dropped as soon as she was given the opportunity to.

As if she needed something else to remind her she didn't excel at everything, something to rock the foundations she had tentatively placed her weary feet on.

And as if she needed reminding that her fabricated reality was incredibly fragile and merely paper thin.

 **There. I'm sure you enjoyed that very much. _You should tell me that..._ just kidding.**

 **(also I know I missed a week but we don't talk about that.)**


	4. Tracing Paper

"Oh, Sorry!"

"Excuse me!"

"Don't mind me, just coming through with _your food_."

"I'm afraid you'll have to pay extra if you want extra bread."

"Yes, of course we can do the bacon special with no bacon!"

"Enjoy your meal!"

"Have a nice evening!"

Hiccup sighed as he wiped down a table, happy that it was 8:47 and no one had wanted to speak to the manager or ask for food that wasn't on the menu. Working in a food place had the surprising affect of making him forget that he was hungry. He walked back into the kitchen and wrapped up a bacon sandwich, knowing his father _would_ be hungry when he came home from work in an hour. Hiccup had got a part time job at Gobber's five years ago to help pay the bills, but it was nothing compared to the hours his father worked.

He changed out of his work clothes and said goodbye to everyone, 9:03. That was ok. It would take him 20 minutes to walk home, then he had 3 assignments to complete as he had an extra long shift yesterday. Then he would attempt to get some sleep, and _then_ drink enough coffee to fuel a small army.

Calming music filtered through cheap earphones and Hiccup ignored how synthetic the quality made it sound. It was calming, that was what mattered. Calming as he walked through a scarcely lit, dirty and frankly unsafe neighbourhood. Raucous laughter and clanging bottles could be heard through all the usual doors; nothing was hidden by the shabby, thin walls of every house in Nadder Way.

He turned up the sound as he passed a house where a couple argued, a bottle slamming against the thin lace curtains and shredding them, followed by a beefy hand twisted painfully in long brown hair thumping against the now-bare window. He ducked his head and forced himself to just keep walking at the dirty insults and muffled screams coming from a notorious black alleyway - he knew these people; they could skin him alive. And he had never felt more stifled by his oversized, warm winter clothing than when passing skinny little girls far too young, draped against walls and clad in almost nothing.

It was quiet tonight, relatively.

The door was locked when he arrived, as it always was. It gave no indication, however, of whether he was alone or not as the door was _always_ locked. His hands did not want to obey him as he dragged them out of his warm pockets and fumbled with the key. _Home_.

Smiling far too widely, he took in the slightly musky scent of the mahogany floors, dark red walls and stained old furniture. His house had not changed for as long as he could remember; the only proof that it wasn't actually frozen in some kind of stasis was the accumulating dust that was swept away on his father's annual Hey-come-on-son-let's-clean-wait-what-are-cleaning-wipes-for-again? moments. They were always... interesting to say the least, (and often ended in at least one semi radioactive room that wasn't touched for another decade.)

He wasn't home. Of course he wasn't home; Hiccup should really have stopped being disappointed about that. He was never home.

Sighing slightly, he downed enough water to make his stomach shut up and left the sandwich in the kitchen for when his father came home; he wouldn't hear him come home or hear him leave, but the sandwich would certainly be gone in the morning.

Hiccup trudged up the stairs and collapsed on his mattress, making the decision to do his assignments another time. Or at least he would have done if he had been awake long enough.

oOo

It was dark when Hiccup woke up, so he checked his old clock, well.. it was really just a working mechanism and some not quite circle his four year-old had carved out of a cardboard box, but it was still perfectly functional. However much he wished it wasn't when his torch found the plain black hands innocuously pointing to 2:38. In the morning. He groaned and would have hit himself in the face with his pillow if it weren't for the feline that had appeared on it.

"Oh. Toothless, good of you to show your face."

Blank stare.

"It's been a while, where've you been?"

Yawn.

He reached out the pet the black cat who hissed at the offending hand. He held both of them up in surrender. "Okay, Okay. No touching. You can't just stay on my pillow; it's the middle of the night."

Toothless gave him one long, luxurious blink with haunting green eyes, curled up and promptly fell asleep.

"Oh great. Thanks Toothless, I love you too." Hiccup grumbled as he looked for his discarded hoodie so he could go and investigate the yellow light from under his door.

Toothless, Toothless was... interesting. The feline had just appeared at the end of his bed one day and blinked at him ridiculously calmly as he stuttered through a cringey introduction with wild, jilted hand gestures. Then he left.

They had a few other encounters since then, the most recent (and memorable) one being the time his father destroyed a painting by his mother in a fit of rage and Toothless curled up in his lap and just sat there with him as he cried. That had been fun.

By this time, he had reached the bottom of the stairs and peeked around the wooden banister in apprehension. Relief spread through him at a very familiar cough. Relief that was quickly replaced with concern. He had heard that cough far too much recently.

"Hey Dad."

His father looked up at him with one of his frowns that made his eyebrows swallow his eyes.

"Hiccup. What are you doing up?"

"Uh.." _You really don't know what quiet means._

"Couldn't sleep."

"Oh."

 _I saw Toothless today; he's asleep on my bed. Silly feline, right? You'll never guess what happened at school today..._

"So.. how was work?"

"Busy. You?"

"Yeah.. same."

 _Are you ok? Are you sick? You're coughing a lot again. You're not going to get sick like Mum did are you? You're not going to leave me too... right?_

"I'll see you tomorrow."

"Hm."

"Goodnight Dad.

"Night Son."

Sighing in defeat, Hiccup trudged back upstairs to find Toothless _still_ asleep on his pillow.

"Oh bud, what am I going to do with him?" He buried his hands in his hair.

Yeah, he wasn't sleeping now. Paper filled slowly with inky swirls and lines of graphite as dancing images flickered past half-closed eyes until his head finally hit his desk.

Despite the drawing's beauty, Hiccup would hate it in the morning.

 **Well hello again... it's been a while... again.**

 ***Ducks quickly***

 **I wish I was a cat so it was socially acceptable for me to maintain friendships by sleeping... It feels like I haven't slept in ages... *yawn***

 **Tell me if I got the level of awkwardness right in Hiccups convo with his father at 3am XD**

 **Thanks for reading, goodnight!**


	5. Paper Walls

**So... dark shit warning? Here we go, another one of my oblique references that will probably go completely over some people's heads. To be fair, I'm trying to keep this T rated... (It's harder than it should be.) I feel bad that it's so short so it's a week early, no promises that I'll keep it up!**

Sitting cross legged on her bed, Astrid typed furiously with her laptop on her lap, taking periodic sips from a mug of hot chocolate. She had a stupidly long English assignment to complete and approximately 3 hours to do it in. Even so, her minorly-major panic over her terrible time management skills didn't quite override the blissful tranquility of being in the house alone. That horrible, nightmarish, rickety old house that she hated so much. Size wasn't the issue. Despite everything, they had enough money and a nice enough house. That's what it was to everyone else: nice enough. To her, it's spilt alcohol and spilt blood, dark red splotches of angry memories that even raw, desperate hands can't claw away clean. Even though she hated it, it held nothing but bad memories and echoes of pain, it's still home. It's still a place where she went after her first detention and her first kiss; a place she ate in and slept in and somewhere that belonged to her in a world she can't control. And at times like this- all alone on her laptop with a hot drink- it really felt like home.

Then all illusions of peace shattered with a house-rattling slam of that awfully normal, flimsy, white door. She typed faster. A loud voice started slurring words that were even more distorted as they came through the floorboards, but the meaning was clear. She typed frantically, muttering the words she was writing as she slammed them into the keyboard.

That creak was the ancient landing floorboard.

That slam was his dreaded bedroom door.

That terrible, high pitched whine was her pathetic doorknob.

That smell was... that smell was...

Alcohol.

She switched off. Every part of her felt suddenly disconnected and she was _floating_. She could be anything she wanted to be. A robot, a teddy bear, a shiny new doll in a shiny new dollhouse. Of course she knew that in reality she was the broken old doll in the bottom of the toy box; covered in permanent marker with a cracked head and ripped, plastic clothes.

But one can put many, many pretty baubles on a burnt Christmas tree.

Gently, her socked feet touched soft carpet, hauntingly familiar female laughter and whispers of cinnamon scent echoing around her. It was a strange memory, drifting through her fingers like fine mist, yet as swamping as a heavy fog. Long, wavy blonde hair escaped a messy ponytail just as a far too large plaid shirt escaped familiar blue jeans. She knew this woman, with flashes of warm, laughing blue eyes and thick, baggy sleeves rolled up thin forearms. She knew _this_ woman. But, she also knew the frail looking woman with flat, greasy hair and dull, icy eyes. The woman who gave up fighting, gave up hoping and left only to be painted as the villain. The echoes turned dark, hushed whispers of acrid alcohol, metallic blood, foul, foul tasting fear and pain, _oh god so much pain..._

Her eyes snapped open, and she was panting. Her body was throbbing and pulsating as if she could feel every artery and vein pumping blood. She was alone. That's all that mattered. Not what she could smell, or feel, or hear or see. She was alone, so she could pretend. She was strong, she would not crack; not even for a second. She would get through this, take a shower, finish her essay and go to bed. That's normal, isn't it? Besides, she's 17. It's almost over anyway. What's a couple more months? She just couldn't go to sleep now!

 _It just hurt so much..._

No. That's not why she's going to sleep, not the pain. She's far too strong for that. She just didn't want bloody fingerprints on her laptop. Not like she could just clean them off or anything. It's just all about appearances.

Of course.

Always.

 **Obviously longer chapters are really working out for me. Heh... Anyway, I can see that you're all dying to tell me how much you hate me, so go ahead!**

 **(That's totally not a thinly veiled '** _ **Hey! Review!**_ ' **)**

 **(Not at all...)**

 **(** _ **Hey**_ **...)**

 **(** _ **Review!**_ **)**


	6. Paper Swans

***yodels apologies from rooftops***

 **I'm sure none of you want to hear the very long, depressing and messed up reason I haven't updated in fucking forever, so I'll spare y'all that.**

 **Now, on with the show...**

Astrid hiked the strap of her bag up higher; the bag that she spent hours upon hours agonising over after her last bag (the perfect balance of benign and expensive-looking) gained one too many large holes. Middle-ish length nails (that she didn't want the bother about but were still perfectly manicured, people cared about these things) worried at the nape of her neck. She _really_ didn't want to go to this class.

Art was the one thing she had failed at; the one thing she allowed herself to fail at. She had always known her lack of skill in the area, but she had tried valiantly in her eager first year until her room was covered in balls of charcoal-smudged paper and drawings that weren't trying to look like Picasso, honest! However, after the ninety fifth attempt to draw something resembling the human eye, she gave up. She had waited out the two years that art had been compulsory, scraping through with grades that - had they been in any other subject - would have lead to an impromptu date with a rope, a wardrobe and rather a lot of pills. Social consequences be damned.

Then, finally, she had got to give it up. She had never thought that she would ever come back to this room, this messy, colourful room of humiliation and torment that she had visited fortnightly for two years of her life. The art room hadn't changed much, there were new paintings around, a few students showing of the fucking hyper-realism that they called 'oh, just a quick sketch *nervous laugh* not even that good' and a new version of the colour wheel that they thought would help. It never did.

This felt different though, walking into a class she had openly hated and seeing the older version of the little budding artists with high voices that used to take it with her. It felt different because everyone, now, was here because they _wanted_ to be. None of her friends were there to laugh with about how deplorable that scribble on the page was, everyone now took this class seriously and she was suddenly that kid that no one wanted in the class because they disrupted everything. She was the outsider, and wasn't that just _great_.

She plastered a smile that probably even _looked_ strained on her face and slipped into the most unassuming seat she could identify from her not-so-quick-that-she-looks-nervous-or-eager but not-so-long-she-looks-indecisive-or-prejudiced scan of the room. She glanced around inconspicuously, happy to note the not many people were looking at her at all. Once she had finished adamantly not listening to the teacher who was adamantly not noticing her; she selected a sharpish pencil, a cleanish piece of paper, and began to draw.

oOo

She barely noticed when the hour was up and some kid came around and collected her work, just being relieved not to have to look at it any longer or spend any more time working over incorrect foundations in hope to gain more than one mark. She surveyed her class once more while they were all focussed on packing away; they seemed nice enough, the quiet ones.

He was there, the skinny, auburn-headed nerdy kid who she sometimes saw in the hallway. She often thought about how much nicer life would be if she was him: smart, quiet and unassuming with a few genuine close friends and the prospect of an easy, safe career. She knew that she was being naive, saying that, but it still felt unfair that she was judged down to her nail polish and her choice of lunch whereas he sailed through school, largely unnoticed. He was safe where he was, protected with his friends and... walking towards her?

"Uh, hi there."

"What?"

"Uhh, I'm Hiccup." _Why are you telling me this? Why should I care? Why am I not saying this out loud?_

"Astrid." _I know. Say I know. You do know, so say it, I'll hate you and we'll move on_.

Hiccup grunted noncommittally and nodded. "Yeah well, I know it's pretty hard to catch up a class you've missed a lot of, so if you ever want some help or something I'm happy to."

 _What. The. Hell._

"Why would I need help? I'm doing fine thank you very much!" _Steady Astrid, don't lose your cool._

Hiccup gave another one of his infuriating grunts and his eyes flicked over her with cynical skepticism. _Well, that's a new one_. He then took what looked like a maths test out of his bag and sketched something on the back.

"Here." With that, he walked off, leaving her unsure whether to thank him or knock him unconscious or throw some kind of fit.

So, naturally, she walked out of the room calmly and quietly with a smile on her face that somehow came a bit easier than before.

 **Slightly OOC Hiccup but i promise it's all for a good cause ;)**

 **Leave me a review!**


	7. Flash Paper

**Good** **evening** **ladies and gentlemen, please take your seats! Welcome to Hiccup chapter the 2nd, or more aptly, ramblings about why the world is so fucked up! *sigh* I love my job...**

Hiccup snorted and shook his head, wondering for what must be the hundredth time why he gave up his maths test and a passing grade for _Astrid Hofferson_. Astrid Hofferson, the beautiful-but-terrifyingly-popular entity that was deemed untouchable for unknown and unimportant reasons. Then, she had walked in to his art lesson looking honest to gods _nervous_ , and he felt - dare he say it - sorry for her. Her world has always seemed strange to him - not just because he was a dirt poor, scrawny little thing from Nadder Way, of all places - but because it appeared just so pointless.

They put today's icon up on a pedestal and worship the ground they walk on, until tomorrow comes along and they are tossed out; having bleached their hair, spent all their money and done all possible to fit in, only to realise that they were nothing but a passing phase and left in the dust to toxic relationships, ice cream and whatever drugs the rich kids smuggle these days. It was a hard, cruel system dressed up like a doll in designer clothes and slathered with makeup and fake smiles. It was a system in which very few made it to the top and stayed there long enough to be remembered, but still fragile enough to be torn down by frantic acrylic nails from a whispered rumour or the echo of a footstep out of line.

He slowly tensed every muscle in his body as a familiar head of vermillion came into view. This was his world. It was ugly with no cover up, because no one could afford one. It was delirious highs on the smoke of green clumps and snorted white powder, and it was soul crushing lows on wailing sobs coming from the Alley; proof of another life ruined and doomed to the shell of a person who will probably never experience how it was supposed to go. Dagur brushed past him, closer than necessary with all the space on the pavement. It was ridiculous how affected he still was by this one person, how one brush with Dagur sent paralysing chills through his whole body even though the half done marks of brutality on his body were nothing more than faded, silver scars.

He had a scar on his thigh, and one on his wrist. From the same knife, they were. If he lined them up just right, they joined up in a shitty parody of some sick kind of art. He had been ten years old when he had his first confrontation with Dagur the fucking 'great and terrible'. Well, technically it had been one of his cronies that thought he was being clever by sloppily tearing through his thin, green shirt with what was probably his mummies' kitchen knife. He could have sworn he saw a six year old with them last year and he just wanted to scream at them 'go the fuck home you _children_ ' but Dagur was never lacking in followers; all with macabre blank faces and eerily straight lines slashed on their inner wrists. It was a clever place, really. No one would ever suspect that two straight knife cuts on someone's inner wrist would be anything other than self inflicted. Unless, of course, they lived on Nadder Way, in which case they wouldn't dare breathe a word. The boy's knife had slashed though his wrist and then ripped through his thigh as well. To be fair, it had only done that because the redhead himself had arrived with his glinting white teeth, glowing green eyes and a braid of blood cascading down his back and pushed the other boy forward. He can't remember what he yelled about, but he can still feel the far too fragile, awfully warm corpse slumped against him. At that moment, Dagurs fierce reputation had made sense. He looked like a demon- no. He looked like the devil himself, hunched over him with blood dripping from his fingers and smiling that malignant smile... and then he laughed.

Roared.

Guffawed.

Howled.

He laughed and laughed and laughed until he just stopped, no heavy breathing or any sign that he had ever been laughing at all and it was so bloody silent.

He blacked out then.

The next time he woke up he was in an empty alley, only half marked. He never was marked properly, even though he had lived in terror for about a year that Dagur would finish the job. Dagur acted weird around him, like there was some kind of... something forbidding him from touching Hiccup. He never did, to be fair. Which was even more mad because Hiccup watched him _murder_. People like that don't survive. Well, except him, apparently.

His musings had brought him home past the Alley, past the squealing, hungry children, past the obviously abusive households that no one would do anything about and far, far away from Dagur. He suddenly felt an overwhelming need to be inside, away from all of this. He was scared, he felt unsafe and unsteady and he just wanted to scream...

The lock he had been fumbling with finally jerked open and he stumbled inside, resting his head against a warm, rustic wall and breathing out the sudden panic constricting his chest.

He slammed the door with his toe, sighed in relief and sagged against the wall before hearing a horrible, breathless, raspy sound coming from the kitchen: a cough. Panic melted into worry as he heard another cough, and then another. His father was sick.

"Son? *wheeze* Is that you?" Hiccup scrambled to his feet and walked to the kitchen, surprised at the dizziness and unsteadiness of his body; he felt like he had just been shivering for a long time and had finally stopped.

 _Well that's what you get when you don't eat for two days and your last meal was three chips. You don't get to act surprised, Hiccup._

 _Calm down, it's just adrenaline._

 _Yeah, right._

He rounded the corner and was met with a familiar sight that never failed to amuse him. His father was sat on one of their uncomfortable, wooden chairs that were way too small for him, frowning intently at the rubbish black laptop he got supplied with for one of his jobs and jabbing his big finger at the keys with more force than necessary. It was no wonder he had broken three of them already, and had come back with an even crappier model each time.

The first one had just stopped working one day,and he couldn't get it to start up again. The second one had stopped writing the letters K, T, A, D and R. The message explaining why he needed a new one was hilarious and brilliant (there is a framed copy on the wall; a birthday present). The third one, however, was a story that just crossed the line between fucking hilarious and a little sad. One night, they'd had Gobber over and so used actual cutlery and crockery (which never happened as his father usually got some incredibly greasy takeout which Hiccup never got to look at) but Hiccup had been sick and Stoick, despite being very tired, did the dishes. Well, he thought that he did. He was informed in the morning that one of the plates gave him a little zap, and wandered downstairs to see the laptop on the countertop. That was another fun one to explain. (But not as fun as the mental image of his father washing his laptop and wondering why it gave him a mild electric shock)

"Hey dad, working still?" I thought you were going to have a nap before your shift at 8.

"This has to be done. *splutter*"

He watched his father give a series of deep, throaty coughs that even _sounded_ painful. He took a step closer.

"Maybe you should rest, dad."

"No."

"But dad, you lo-"

"No, Hiccup. *cough*"

He stood up and walked over, dwarfing Hiccup.

"Dad, you're coughi-"

"Hiccup, let it be."

He grabbed Hiccup's arm. A warning.

"But, Dad, you're ill! Just get some rest and I'll-"

He squeezed Hiccup's wrist tightly and a look came into his eyes that told Hiccup immediately that he'd said the wrong thing.

"I AM NOT ILL! I DO NOT GET FUCKING ILL! YOU MIGHT, WITH YOUR PATHETIC BUILD BUT THAT DOESNT GIVE YOU THE RIGHT TO GO ON ACCUSING PEOPLE OF BEING ILL!"

Hiccup clenched his fist in hopes to keep his hand attached to his arm and gave a pained grimace which seemed to pull his father out of his tirade. He let go of Hiccup's wrist and stood back awkwardly, in a parody of the stance of a naughty child. He scratched at his beard and cleared his throat loudly, before turning to scoop up his laptop. "Sorry, sorry." He muttered absentmindedly. "Just, tired."He turned his hopeful face back to Hiccup, willing him to believe that.

"Yeah, tired." Hiccup agreed.

"Well I'm going to take a nap, I'll see you tomorrow, maybe."

"Yeah, probably."

As he watched his father go, he steadfastly ignored the ache in his wrist that promised a bruise. He was too old for such pathetic bruises anyway. However, when touching it gently proved painful and he knew he'd have purple stains for a while, he decided that he needed an excuse. Fishlegs would ask at school, and possibly Heather at work.

Slammed in a door? Perfect.

As he moved around the kitchen, absentmindedly rubbing his forearm, he noticed a note on the table.

07780 040205

Laurie nop Lauren.

Needs childcare at 4. Wednesday.

Hiccup?

 _Great_ , thought Hiccup, _wouldn't that be jolly._

 **And so it begins *rubs hands together***

 **Trust me, Lauren has a purpose. Also trust me that I am trying _so_ _very_ _hard_ *dramatically swoons* to not make a Stoick abusive. However, you cannot tell me that with their size difference alone that there would not have been accidental bruises, sprains and breaks.**

 **And if you're wondering why Stock is so large when they're dirt poor, just remember that in Tesco lemonade is cheaper than _water_. Case and point.**

 **Anyway, goodnight, tell me what you think of Dagur!**


	8. Paper Hats

* **angry roaring from mob throwing heavy objects***

 **Yeah sorry about that, shall we move on?**

Astrid couldn't concentrate. She was trying: her first lesson a cacophony of snapping her eyes in focus and forcing herself to block out idle chatter, usually an easy feat. As her lessons passed infuriatingly slowly, she got increasingly fidgety and annoyed. Something was ticking at the back of her brain like a dust mote she couldn't grab hold of, but it was swirling around tauntingly, in and out of light, just out of reach so that she could think of nothing else. By the end of her fourth lesson, she had snapped at Ruffnut (and now had a sore shoulder), botched a test, doodled on three textbooks (since when did she _doodle_ anyway), answered a question _wrong_ (this is madness) and succeeded in making herself as prickly as she was after three weeks of fractured ribs, or with _really_ bad cramps.

She moved to her usual lunch spot and listened to some ginger girl who wasn't there last week talking in an annoying, banshee-like voice about something she couldn't be bothered to focus on long enough to find out. Interested, now, at why some newbie was speaking for so long instead of quietly observing the new ground, she watched her until she caught the girl's brown eyes flicking nervously over to her a few times, gauging her reaction. Ah, attention. She'll be gone next week.

Bored once again, she flicked through her bag to the lunch she wouldn't eat, the homework she would (eventually) do, and this weeks mental health handout she would ignore. With a resigned sigh of exasperation, she pulled her hand out of her bag. Unfortunately, the maths test she had been ignoring followed; she shoved it back in inhumanly quickly, resulting and a little shock of pain.

"Shit," she snapped.

It was a paper cut, a scratch. The epitome of a minor injury. A sharp, stinging pain that is gone within minutes and only remembered when washing dishes or hands. They are annoying, though, and as disproportionately painful as the amount of weight an ant can carry for its size. Everyone knows them, and groans about them. Puny little paper cuts get far too much screen time for what they're worth. Just like Hiccup. She shouldn't still be thinking about him and their three second interaction and how she fantasised about how much easier his life is and his stupid thoughtful gestures that left her stumped. No one shocks Astrid Hofferson and gets away with it. Except him, apparently. But why the fuck was she letting him get away with it? For that, she had no answer.

"What's up, killer?" Oh, great.

"Not today, Ruff." Her pale, spidery hand stilled on my shoulder and I felt her sweeping, speculative gaze linger.

"You annoyed with little Mary Sue over there too?"

"That's a stupid name." she mumbled distractedly, until she heard a snort and a groan from Ruffnut.

"Oh."

Ruffnut burst out in rough, scratchy peals of laughter that carried across the field, causing quite a few winces and masked glares. She swatted her shoulder.

"Shut up, you."

"Boy, you are really out of it today! Seriously, what's up?"

"Oh, nothing. I'm gonna walk for a bit, Yeah? See you in history."

The hand on her shoulder tightened a bit, then released. She almost snickered; Ruff never could really deal with her shit. It was ridiculous, and a little crushing, how easy lying was and how easily people gave up digging with a few careful dismissals. Still, she felt the prickle of an icy blue glare burning through her back as she left. Ruffnut dug deeper than most. They had met on the first day of her second year, when she was still building her reputation and didn't wear makeup unless necessary.

To tell the truth, Ruff hadn't changed much throughout the years. She had always been ridiculously skinny, tall and blonde with an I-don't-care-unless-it's-weird attitude. Nothing was ever boring with her; she could fail maths three terms in a row and yet she knew the etiquette of a seven course meal in a fancy restaurant, she hated languages at school and yet she could speak fluent Polish, and despite never having been to Spain, she knew everything about its history and festivals. (They had passed an entire double lesson chatting animatedly about the Tomatina until the teacher gave detention, which of course was revoked.)

In all fairness, she couldn't be where she is without Ruff. She was her partner in anything and had her back unconditionally, despite most of their friendship being built on childish scuffles and a mutual hatred of 'perfect' family units. They didn't get sappy or coo over their ailments; they pushed through and made each other stronger, as they both knew that they wouldn't survive the hard, concrete floor underneath the satin curtain of popularity otherwise. The little she knew about Ruffnut's home was this: their father had left when they were very young and their mother had countless new 'boyfriends'. As a result, her and Tuffnut became dependant on each other and they basically brought themselves up. On the flip side, it meant that they had gotten many experiences and odd titbits that they never otherwise would have.

The name thing was another matter altogether. The only (bullshit) explanation she had ever heard was 'I'm rough and he's tough and we're both nuts' but behind the faux nervous tittering that followed was a story she wasn't sure that even she wanted to hear. Still, Ruffnut had taught her how to enjoy this crap we label childhood which despite mainly consisting getting drunk, dancing like headless chickens and being flung into pools, was invaluable to her. Ruff had always preferred to stay in the backseat and let her take the lead, but watching her flawlessly manipulate countless people in such a subtle, expert way that it was almost beautiful left her unsure of who was really driving.

After a few laps of the school, she started getting strange looks (imaginary or not, she couldn't afford them) so she made a beeline for the empty classroom at the back of the history block that remained mainly unused. She shucked her bag on the floor and sunk her hands through her hair, curling her head to her chest with a long, tired sigh. She didn't wanted to think about any of this and she was so bloody tired and her fucking finger was hurting and isn't that just _pathetic_. In a sudden pique, she ripped the maths test in the bin and screwed it up, clawing at it with chipped nails that she needed to fix.

The white flash of her hands flicking around in exasperated gestures in her peripheral caught her eye. It was a mirror: an old, grimy mirror with so many streaks on it it might as well have been one of those 'crazy' mirrors at fairgrounds. She gave herself a critical glance. She was favouring her right side: dangerous. A big fault of hers was not realising when she was favouring injured sides. She was holding herself delicately, and her finger was bleeding. Oh god, the fucking paper cut. The day was catching up with her: she hadn't eaten yet (she often didn't, 'after', she felt too sick) she was in pain that was barely masked by paracetamol (though she was trying not to admit it) and she was so damn confused.

She didn't look in mirrors, as a rule. She always found a macabre version of herself staring back, as broken as a decapitated doll and naked with injuries curling around a smokey image of what she was trying to hold together. And _nonono_ _this couldn't happen at school she was normal, normal, normal..._

She stared with hazy detachment at the suddenly ethereal seeming body that could only be a reflection of hers; a body covered in bruises and mocking, gagging tears with rich, black blood flowing as slowly, as cruelly as lava down the inside of her thigh. _Dirty, aren't you, bitch._ Somehow, though, the wound with the sting her subconscious wanted to focus on was that tiny little paper cut left by the ripped maths test she knew was in the bin. The maths test covered in hurried (but none the less correct) anatomy drawings, little notes that she automatically read in a distinctive voice that far too recently was unfamiliar to her and innocent, crude smiley faces with way too much expression. Just then, the day crashed into her and the feeble web of false mantras keeping her standing caved in. Reflected blue eyes bleached white, contrasting black shadows and fantasy, black blood. A solid form phased out, fading and swaying until a body that must be hers crumpled to the floor; crackling blue lights finally going blissfully still.

oOo

She came around to the ring of the bell and flushed. She hadn't fainted at school since the possibly broken ribs and coughing up blood incident that we don't mention. As she picked up her bag with a (not) shaking hand and flounced out with her head held high on (not) trembling legs, she had only two thoughts:

 _This is unacceptable. I'll do better; I have to._

 **Ok but the next chappie is 2000 words?**

 ***mob separate and trudge home, mumbling mutinously.***

 **Soo... throw vegetables? Review? Idk, it's up to you.**

* **dashes away***


	9. Wall Paper

**Parts in this chapter that deal with addiction, smoking and homelessness don't reflect my own views but I thought they would reflect the character's.**

When Hiccup arrived home, the first thing he did (after locking the door, the ever prevalent first concern) was run upstairs and get in his bed. It was always quiet in his room, at first. It seemed almost silent compared to the noise of school and the street, but after he lay there for a while - relaxed and got used to the new, rare tranquility, background noises came back and soon after it was silly to have ever of thought that there was silence at all. There was the near gentle, monotonous lull of the cars, then people shouting below him, sounds of doors being slammed from the neighbours and the slight lilt of normal, friendly conversation in the street.

There were always birds in the threadbare bushes, despite the evident lack of green around and the slight, nose wrinkling tang of cigarette smoke that 'fresh air' was just outmatched by. It clung to everything, that smell - making everyone just a little soiled. Smelling like a smoker from living here was just one reminder of a clinging stigma bound to them like that fatal, acrid scent. He didn't smoke, as a rule. It wasn't because it was 'dangerous' or anything, (he doubted he'd live long enough to feel the effects of smoking and if he did, lung cancer would be a blessing) but because it was a weakness. One thing living with his father had taught him was not to show weakness of any kind, and how to avoid them. Dependency on anything was an absolute weakness and he felt nothing but contempt for desperate, little people who sat on the streets, begging without a voice for just enough for another few, fleeting moments of calm release with smoke pouring from their teeth. Addiction was a failure.

He looked at the time displayed by those flimsy black hands that he had cursed to the winds many times before. He blinked. Groaning in resignation when they still displayed the same time, he took a few moments to appreciate the warmth and relative painless ness of his body. His health was to be a precious and fleeting thing, he suspected. There were toxic substances floating around his body (voluntarily, involuntarily and non-voluntarily) and his genes were a disaster. How does one die from especially brittle ankles anyway? Besides, considering that he would most likely die at twenty or something stupid anyway, it was nice to feel relatively ok for once.

He pottered down the stairs after donning another hoodie and layer of socks and stationed himself at the kitchen table, nearest to the door. As the minutes passed, the nervous drumming of his fingers against his knee became painful and places in the house that he had never noticed existed progressively looked more and more offensively messy and dirty.

Finally, there was a tentative knock at the door, one that spoke of timidity and promised awkwardness. He unlocked the door, and there was the woman he had been worrying about all day. Bit pathetic, really.

The child was rather adorable (as were most babies, the little monsters) with big brown eyes and a thick, navy knitted hat atop messy, dark curls. He couldn't say that she looked happy or cheerful, instead observing her world with a kind of guarded curiosity that got to him just a little bit. She seemed content, however, to sit in her mother's arms and she hadn't started crying, which was always a good thing.

As for her mother... She was thin, was his first thought. People on Nadder Way were a range of sizes, from downright skeletal to... well, his father. However, none of them looked _healthy_. Generally, health is categorised by people on weight or amount of muscles, but often it can be seen simply shining out of someone's face. Some people just look heathly, and he'd only ever seen such people on TV, at Gobber's or at school. Still, she wouldn't have been considered unhealthy if she didn't look so _frail_. It was her posture, mostly, and her threadbare clothing that gave her the trademark _pathetic_ look of the people who lived here.

Of course, it wasn't just his neighbourhood that was like this, which was proven by the fact that this Lauren and her young family were relatively new here. He wasn't quite sure how new, but they were there for the new school year as he saw her husband in the supermarket and they certainly weren't there for the fire at number 14 three years ago, as everyone evacuated to Gobber's for that and he would have known if she was there. He was surprised that he'd never seen her around, really. She had thick, dark hair that looked like it had been washed with washing up liquid and large brown eyes that popped woefully out of her pale face. She would be pretty, he supposed, with the necessary primping and a lot of fancy products. Most people would, to be fair. She was forgettable, a face in the crowd, something that it served people like them well to be. He could deal with her, he guessed.

"Hello."

"Hi!" She dropped the key she was fumbling with and a bag of what looked like apples to shift the weight of her child and stuck her hand out.

Considering all that, it now felt rude to not take it.

"I'm Lauren."

"Yeah. I'm Hiccup."

"Ooh I know! Err.. Stoick was it? Well, your father told me."

"Ok. Do you want to come in?"

"Sure."

Hiccup let out a long, measured breath through his teeth that felt as thick as cigarette smoke. He led her to the kitchen, which was where he took all guests except Gobber, of which the grand total amounted to a few men a year for taxes and repairs, the odd health inspector who's visit usually went like 'this house is a travesty. You'll both die.' 'We know.' And of course that one visit five years ago from his grandmother, who went around banging the back of their heads with a walking stick for a few weeks then disappeared back down whatever rabbit hole she came from. (He was pretty sure he didn't have a grandmother Myrtle anyways.)

"Ehm.. take a seat." He gestured almost embarrassedly to the four stained, creaky, wooden chairs. He was surprised when her face lit up brightly in a warm, happy smile that seemed to make her shine for a moment in the monotonous house. She unloaded all her bags; there were more than he thought and he nearly felt bad for her carrying them here alone. She surveyed his house with a smile dimmed to indoor proportions, but not quite enough to diminish her infectious happiness.

"Thank you! Well, this is very.. homely."

He chuckled nervously, casting his eye to the threadbare, stained yellow curtains framing a window so soiled it looked as if it may have been plastic. Under that was a muted sink, currently clutter free and around it was cream and brown (well, more like brown and brown) cupboards, fixed with duck tape which stuck out potently in the almost sepia coloured kitchen. The cupboards had been that colour since they moved in twenty years ago, he had been informed, and even his father didn't know what colour they were meant to be.

Across the mahogany hallway with its dark red walls was what he suspected was intended to be the living room. It was more of a brown and black mess of clutter, collected over many years of garage sales and 'it was two for one, son. Bargain!' He avoided the living room where possible, it's not like he could move in it, even if he wanted to. (He didn't.)

"Er, thanks. I apologise in advance for letting your child set foot in it, and for anything she may find in the living room."

Lauren laughed lightly. It looked strange on her guarded frame with stiff shoulders and crossed legs. He followed her eyes back to his hands and came to the conclusion that her eyes hadn't left them the whole time she'd been here. Smart. Watch the hands.

"It's alright. Your house is just as suitable for a child as mine."

"Well surely you've had to make a lot of changes."

"Tell me about it. Dan hates it."

"Dan?"

"My husband. He's always complaining about me moving things and then moaning at me when Ellie gets hurt! Last week it took me 55 minutes to get her out from behind the gap between the dresser and the wall, which she fell down!"

"Why don't you move it to make it easier for the baby?"

Oh, Dan wouldn't like that. He's had to deal with a lot of changes since the baby came along, and he likes things a certain way."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, he's always made sure the house is clean and proper, you know? Sometimes he has people from work over and I have to stay out the way then, it would be too much work to move everything around every time that happened."

"You don't sound very close."

That got a reaction. She shot up like someone had electrocuted the base of her spine and nails painted dark bit into her pale palms.

"Oh no, that's just for work! He loves me, he just gets in his moods sometimes, you see, and I prefer not to be where he is when he's drunk."

Her nervous titter and jerky hand movement, intended to be placating and dismissive, did nothing to ease the gnawing in his gut.

"Why's that?"

"Oh, he's rather noisy."

With a trembling hand, she tucked a strand of dark hair behind her ear and looked down at the floor.

 _He turned up the sound as he passed a house where a couple argued, a bottle slamming against the thin lace curtains and shredding them, followed by a beefy hand twisted painfully in long brown hair thumping against the now-bare window._

"Yeah. Noisy." He muttered.

He drew in a breath. It was easy enough to ignore the stark truths of this place as he knew he couldn't change anything if he wanted to and he was just tearing himself apart over something he couldn't fix. But now... this was just a young girl who probably grew up a lot like he did. She was doomed to be forever tense in strange environments and watch the hands of everyone, just in case. Her smile was still pure, however, the only thing left untainted. It was heartbreaking, how beautiful she would be with her charming smile and laugh if she was up there at the top and had never been beaten down.

She made a noise of agreement, though it came out as more of a relieved huff.

"So, why do you need care tonight?"

"Oh, he's having a few friends over. That reminds me, I'd best get going to start on the cooking! Here's a bag of things for her, thank you so much for doing this!"

"It's no problem, I had nothing to do tonight anyway." His father had known it was his night off. He regretted telling him now.

"Well thank you again, I shouldn't be too late!"

She bustled out the door with her bags and he locked it behind her. Like always.

oOo

She came back at the hour of midnight, with a dark hood to hide her face. Her chipped, yellowing teeth pulled into a smile as she took the child and cooed in happiness but he wasn't fooled. He had seen those shadows around her eye circling the eyes of many others, including himself a couple of times. Sure as her soft, grateful voice and her guarded limp out into the night, she had a black eye.

As he lay awake that night, he tried fruitlessly to fool himself with perfectly innocent reasons it could be there. The mind can be very inventive with a desperate motive, after all.

 **Lauren won't be a big part of this fic... she serves a purpose, which you will see in the next chapter. (Ooh,** _ **exciting**_ **) *audience gives blank stares***

 **You know the drill, 'takes thirty seconds to review bwabllah', tell me what you think!**


	10. Sugar Paper

**Hello there! Chapter 10... So let me thank everyone who's favourited and followed so far, I hope I'm meeting your expectations! And also six guests, CajunBear73 (special thanks to you), Marie, No Account, Sian HTTYD fan, Jimmix, guesswho, Anonymous Noob the 2nd, nandjferon, De Amicus, Midnight, B0red Slytherin (I regret telling you now XD), backseat reader and blackberry avar for reviewing and making me soo happy! You should know I smiled like an idiot reading your reviews. Also like... over 8000 people have read this? *sweats nervously* Anyway you don't want to listen to me ramble on in awe anymore, on with the show!**

Hiccup was feeling queasy.

It was a common feeling for him, nothing new. It was almost friendly, in fact. However, when 'queasy' became 'dizzy and faint' he knew the game was up. Despite his dearest wishes, he still needed food. This again.

He had spent school in a haze of way-past-hungry, that wasn't really hungry but just made him feel so fucking hollow. It made him have thoughts that made him tremble and dwell on all things melancholy. He had spoken no more than a grunt to Fishlegs, and shrugged at a teacher who asked him a question.

The world spun. He blinked twice: all better.

He was full of fun lies like that.

No one asked him why he didn't eat, if one discounts Fishlegs and his mother, who probably have that phase framed on the wall with the family holiday pictures. He preferred it that way. To him, those 6 o'clock soaps that Mrs Ingerman watches were more like horror movies than horror movies; all those nosey people who all know each other and a _close knit community_... ugh, chills. He wouldn't last a week. In fact, no one noticed him at all, really or cared long enough to stay and that suited him just fine. If asked, he wouldn't say that he was lonely, just solitary. People asked questions: questions were dangerous.

It wasn't about his weight or any bullshit like that; he wished he wasn't so scrawny and disgusting anyway. That wish, however, was overrruled by the need for control, and atonement. Atonement for all the screams he ignored; all the half frozen bloody messes he walked past and all the people whose lives he could have saved with a phone call. A phone call that would have damned him to a fate worse than death. Pathetic, wasn't he.

Many would call his father's view on many things egotistical or selfish, but the truth was that it was merely survival. They had all seen what happened to naive people who had been horrified at the conditions and tried to help people - one, little, stupidly impulsive mind against age old, cruel, clever, offenders. They couldn't help - it ended up a life for a life and there wasn't one case that didn't end in moving away, death or insanity. They didn't generally have strong mental constitutions and couldn't cope with such complete violation.

He couldn't say that he didn't feel guilty though, damn guilt. He could remember all the times he could have helped and didn't; he could have given that bleeding little girl a jacket ( _yeah, but she was a tart_ ), he could have picked up that crying toddler that some of Dagur's gang kicked down ( _crying? Still? He was weak; he needed to learn_ ) and he could have warned that old lady that once gave him a mint about the fire three years ago - maybe she would have lived ( _she was old, going to die anyway_ ).

The mind could twist everything, it seems. He had heard too many people moaning about how this was their _last time gambling, it's just some fun, I won't get sucked in this time_ and men muttering on the street that their _wife won't have to know, this is the last time, just some stress relief, I'll be better_ and children taking money from bloody corpses in a sick little game called survival to dispute that fact. When did six year-olds without developed sex drives become sluts, or infants who couldn't understand the concept of death cold blooded murderers? When, while everyone is so desperate for survival, did age become a weakness and where the hell was he when all this became acceptable to the whole neighbourhood to an extent that no one ever disputed any of it?

 _See Hiccup, this is hungry talk. Get some fucking bread and stop thinking about morals; you promised you wouldn't go down that road again after you gave five pounds (four meals) to that girl._

A moral compass was a luxury he couldn't afford if he was to ever get out of here. Besides, there was no one he really cared about enough to miss. Except every child dumped and slowly buried in a scrap heap that could have been a Mensa scale genius, or invented some new phone, or solved world problems, or hell, even just grown up and worked in an office- had a family and a three bedroom house in some half decent street.

He jerked harshly ( _snap out of it, Hiccup_ ) and found himself at the entrance to his local supermarket: the place everyone's been to at 3am for something stupid, stolen something petty from as a kid and a place that's become so familiar that any changes are noted with a 'tut' and a raised eyebrow.

He glued his eyes to the floor as his stomach churned in a way that would have been a growl yesterday, but today was a half-assed silent version. It's not like he didn't deserve it all, anyway. He supposed that he couldn't really call it 'hungry' anymore, but he did if just because it was a minimisation ( _I'm hungry, Oh I'm starving, I'm hungry, lets go inside._ ) It was silly, kiddy and normal. That made it safe. Never feeling more grateful in his life, he used the self checkout (best invention of the century) and dashed off with a loaf of bread.

Blinking languidly at him, a familiar black cat sat - tail over paws - on a bench outside.

"Hey Toothless."

Toothless, surprisingly, mewed happily at him and kept down gracefully to prance along next to him.

"You coming back with me?"

The cat gave no acknowledgement of his question. Much better, he was getting worried.

As expected, Toothless did get bored of walking with him and turned back with a kind of entitled dignity that only cats could pull off. Finally arriving home, he locked the door with a sigh - he hated being alone; it made him antsy.

70p, that bread had costed. It wasn't a lot, really, but ten of those is seven pounds and that's about an evening at Gobber's' wage. Times that by twenty and that's the next quarters' water bill. He really needed to quit eating so much; he knew what he didn't eat would be gobbled up by his father so the less he ate, the less his father would buy.

He cut a slice and eyed it critically. He cut it in half. He cut it in half again.

After staring at it for far too long, deliberating, he brought it to his mouth when his stomach gave an angry growl. Another half.

 _You're eating money, Hiccup. Put it back, stop being greedy, you pig. You don't need it. Put it back, and we'll move on._

Hunger was a bitch. It followed him around, only leaving for a few fleeting moments before returning with an angry vengance, filled with arrogant growls of some false sense of entitlement. FEED ME. I DESERVE IT. FEED ME NOW. He hated it. It would all go away, if he let it. He had enought food here to quell his hunger for days, if he gobbled it all. He knew he couldn't, though. The brief satistfaction of a full stomach, sated with acidic cardboard, would soon turn to furious yowls of anger and guilt. It would build up and up until he finally erased it, after which he would feel worse than he had orginally.

He cut the bread in half again and shoved it in his mouth, like a child stuffing evidence of a forbidden feast in his mouth. It went down his throat with coaxing and felt warm and horribly unsettling in his stomach.

It had been far too long since he ate.

 **Ok so this doesn't really move the plot on, I was a week late and I lied about Lauren - she comes up later, but bear with me, the next few chapters will be much more fun! (Well, 'fun'...)**

 **Leave me some words, fair trade! ;)**


	11. Paper Kites

**Back to art class again; ain't this fun!**

Astrid stared at the brightly coloured posters with a blank, distant gaze. Art, seemingly endless art was nearly over and she could get out there and run away her mind. She wouldn't have to think, or worry, or obsessively check herself over and over. She could get out there and let her legs carry her as fast as possible _away_.

Letting a (very quiet) wistful sigh escape, she zoned back in slowly to find akimbo, navy-clad arms in front of her.

"Astrid, is _this_ your final piece?"

"It's not finished yet." _Take it and leave._

"Well whatever you're planning better be fantastic or it won't get a grade at all! You need to focus, you only have one lesson left on this!"

"Yes miss." _Seriously, fuck off._

Her teacher gave a 'humph' of satisfaction and waltzed off in her silly frilly shirt.

She tossed her art away from her with a growl and nearly ripped it all up, just to spite Miss Artsy know-it-all. All that crap about complimentary colours and aesthetic, I was just as bad as makeup. She wanted to be _moving_. She couldn't feel her heartbeat, nothing hurt and her brain was left with only the day's social mistakes and what kind of mood her father would be in later to concentrate on, which was a recipe for disaster as she could analyse the shit out of both until hell froze over. The ridiculous, mindless clarity in her head when her chest was heaving and her legs were turning numb was the best fucking feeling in the world.

Sighing again, she realised that she'd drifted off and the dreadful eyesore in front of her had not miraculously become a masterpiece worthy of a final grade in the time she'd been staring into space, dreaming about destroying her body with a stupid amount of laps. Well, maybe not a _stupid_ amount; she did want her knee to hold up.

And there she went again. This was hopeless. Her eyes drifted to a regretfully familiar head of... brown? Some weird ginger colour? Was it the light? Hair colour aside, there was Hiccup: the first person in well, forever, to offer to help her without an asterisk. But... her good old rules came back to her saying that any fraternisation with that... _thing_ was social suicide. Although, failure for the second time at a subject dubbed 'easy' by the ignorant minds that held in their gummy hands her social status may not be much better. However, this was _Hiccup_ : first class nerd, greasy little nobody and clearly no money.

After much deliberation and an indeterminately long death stare at an innocent poster later, she came to a decision that echoed at least the thousand before it: she could not fail.

She swung her braid over her shoulder with (embarrassingly) practiced poise and waltzed over with a walk _far too jerky, act natural, bitch - too fast, don't look eager, nope! Too slow, you slacker - what are you? Some bumbling tourist with a giant map?_

Finally, she stood in front of a messy desk similar to her own except the splashes of colour upon it were the art equivalent of 'legible'. She snapped her fingers, making the fast moving, pale hand skid a line of black over a white patch. She grinned, but quickly neutralised it.

"Oh... Hi Astrid. Are you.. ok?"

 _Oh god this was a mistake. Abort! Abort!_

"You said you'd help me right?"

 _Mouth? What are you doing?_

"Oh.. Er, yep."

 _Ok this is neither Halloween nor April first. You are not being funny._

"Then you need to help me with my final piece."

 _Helloooo? Brain? You in there?_

"Well... technically I don't."

She drummed her fingers in the table once, quickly and forcefully: a warning.

 _That little..._

"Shut up and get over here."

The snap in her voice rolled crisply and satisfyingly off her tongue like biting into a ripe apple.

 _That's better, couldn't you have kicked in sooner?_

She didn't look back to see if he was following her as she walked back to her desk; she didn't have to. They always followed. The whistle he gave surveying her piece warranted a death glare sharper than most daggers and she smacked his hand away from her sketchbook.

"If I'm going to help I have to see your inspiration and coursework an-"

"I don't care."

"But-"

"No. Are you always this argumentative?"

"Are you always this flippant?"

"I've had just about enough of you smart-arse comments."

"Then why did you ask me to help?"

Eyes narrowing, she nearly hissed at him but just regained her composure.

"Fine. I can't deal with you right now and I have a meet to get to. Meet me at seven and we'll talk."

"I don't know where you live an-"

"Find out. S'not hard."

With that, she pranced off at a perfect pace without packing away her desk and made a beeline for the changing rooms; the wonderful, horrible changing rooms that stank of stale sweat and defeat and yet held memories of triumph and nice, hot, cleansing showers that really made her _clean_.

oOo

Sure enough, at seven o'clock, there was a surprisingly confident knock at her door. She had been expecting a timid little brush. In a baggy, frayed coat and duck-taped shoes (that wasn't obvious except to her), there stood Hiccup with a tentative smile that much better befitted the box she had shoved him into.

The smile turned into confusion and he said:

"You don't lock your door?"

Well that was a strange greeting.

"What the fuck kind of question is that? Come on, my father's not here."

"Why is that important? We're just doing art."

"Shut up." _You don't know what it means._

She allowed herself the smallest of smiles as he tripped over the box by the front door that hadn't moved in three years. This would be interesting.

 ***Loudly claps hands* I'm so excited for the next chapter! Awkwardness abounds!**

 **Let me get something straight: Astrid Hofferson (in my story anyways) is not a 'nice person'. We sympathise with her because she grew up way too fast and doesn't deserve the way she is treated and sure, she is redeemable and in no way a lost cause or an inherently bad person. But nice she is not. I'm not going to do the 'bitch turned soft smol sweetheart' thing that some authors do (as she is neither). I'm trying to portray her realistically and if I'm not doing that feel free to point it out! Rant aside, leave a review!**

 **P.S. if anyone gets my heathers reference I'll cry real tears.**


	12. Photo Paper

**This is a week early but I had it written and I'm going to regret this later when I have nothing to post but here ya go.**

"... and you have to think about what feelings you're trying to convey through your work. Astrid? Thoughts?" Hiccup shot her a glare which faltered as it met her piercing, withering stare.

"You sound like the earth, wind and fire lady."

"What?"

"You know, wooo the 'universe is telling me to do this' and 'follow your feelings' and it's 'written in the stars'." He watched her wave her arms about floppily and slur her words.

"Are you drunk bec- OW! hey! It was a valid ques- OW!"

His previous glare attempt came back full force at her barely suppressed mirth as he rubbed his arm.

"Soorry." She singsonged, not sounding sorry in the slightest.

"I think we should take a break since clearly you can't concentrate."

"Do you value your limbs?"

They didn't take a break. Well, not for another fifteen minutes.

When they finally did, Astrid pointed him to the kitchen and so they went. Astrid's house was nothing like he thought it'd be; he had expected cream walls with 101 pictures of a sweaty, muddy, cute baby Astrid holding trophies and spacious, squashy sofas and- he didn't really know what what he had expected, but it was definitely something with more... soul?

The bland, sepia house was much like his kitchen, except sans the scribbled on post it notes and free magazines, the picture of a country lane his mother drew and the _life_. It was a place that felt almost medical, a place of tight-lipped dinners and walking on eggshells; it couldn't be a home, especially not the one of such a confident, vibrant girl as Astrid. Instead, the hallway was dark and the stairs didn't creak; the only thing on the wall was a blue clock and the door was unlocked. It was _wrong_.

By the time they got to the kitchen, Hiccup was completely zoned out. The blinding LED light made it look modern, but it was clear that the cupboards were stained and nothing had been replaced in years. It was bland and relatively tidy, but only because it seemed that there was nothing to make the house messy. He wanted to dump the contents of their 'living room' (storage room that they didn't have space for) on there and scribble on the walls in red crayon. Had Astrid ever done that? He doubted it. A strange trickle of hollow pity entered his chest as he pondered a child growing up in such a Spartan environment, but a sharp jab to his arm and irate crystal eyes piercing his hazy vision quelled it.

"Oi! Were you ignoring me?"

"Whu- uh... nope! Not at all."

"Hmm."

They only had a two person dining table, in mahogany brown in front of a plain grey wall with one, white-rimmed window- sans a pot plant. It was quite a large house, emphasised by it's sparodic furniture and it was clearly not cheap, but for once that didn't matter. He just wanted to give it some life; this was a just-moved-in apartment or a new video game house, not a family home.

"Have you lived here long?"

She spun around with a raised eyebrow and a speculative gaze, but she surprisingly answered his question.

"Uh, about six years? Why?"

"It just looks like nobody lives here. Do you live alone or... " Yup, he was going mad.

He watched her face close down as she gave a harsh huff of humourless laughter.

"What the fuck kinda statement is that? Of course somebody lives here doofus. I live with my father, do I look eighteen to you?"

"Never mind." _Ah, self-preservative instinct, I've been expecting you._

"Nope. Can't have that one. Is there a reason or are you just a weirdo?"

"It just looks... lifeless. I mean... your father's clearly not an interior designer." _Oh god someone melt me down._

 _A_ nd there was suddenly a _very_ intimidating angry twinkle in her eye.

"Presumptuous, aren't you? He's fine, he just doesn't like the house much."

Wait, wasn't that familiar to: _Oh, he just likes things a certain way._

"He's never home? You don't sound very close."

Her brow furrowed and her fists curled, an ugly snarl that still failed to detract from her image as seraphic. He voice gained a frantic lilt, something at odds with everything he knew about her.

"Oh, it's not like that really! We do talk a lot, he just misses Mum and I stay far way from him when he's drunk!"

 _No, he loves me! He just gets in his moods sometimes, you see, and I prefer not to be where he is when he's drunk._

She was definitely acting strange. Who blurts out stuff like that so defensively after a few harmless questions anyway? This was sounding far too much like his conversation with Lauren for any form of comfort.

"Why's that?"

"He gets... loud."

 _He's rather noisy._

A storm swirled in his stomach, rattling the meagre remnants of his bread. He had to get out of this place, this ambient, calm, spacious house that frayed at the edges and rocked a boat that could never be rocked. It wasn't allowed.

"Uhm, hey, I just remembered I've got to be.. Uh, yeah, I'll see you at school?"

He received no response.

 **So this story is about to become M-rated (not for hiccstrid, sorry) so I have two questions.**

 **1- thoughts? Does it matter to you guys? Will it affect whether you read this story or is it chill?**

 **2- do you guys actually want this to be a hiccstrid story? (It's my plan but a certain someone *cough*** _ **B0redSlytherin**_ **put doubt in my mind...)**


	13. Paper Maps

**First of all, thank you for those who helped me out by reviewing (and if you don't ship hiccstrid, go check out the guest's review, you're a nazi! *streamers let loose and fireworks sound in the distance* Needless to say, that review is utter crap but I nearly cried laughing so check it out.) I have come to the conclusion that the fandom is quite divided about this but, this being my story, I am going to stick to my guns and write what would interest me the most and what I am most likely to finish. It is M now, obviously, because of what happens below - which is some father daughter bonding time of the horrible beyond words variety, which, obviously, you can skip over if you want. This will not become a regular thing but I believe I shouldn't gloss over the themes I've chosen to put in my story, that's my responsibility to you.**

 **There will be hiccstrid (hear me out) but not of the 'Oh, look they hate each other; oh, look they love each other; oh, look they're in bed!' variety as, trust me, I could not write that if I tried completely hammered with my eyes shut. Due to Astrid's past and Hiccup's nature, they will not hook up in this story but I will consider it for a sequel (Sorry, I think it would be too soon for the characters.) I may include something so don't rule out all frisky behaviour... but in the interest of realism: no.**

 **Also, in the plot line I've written, it by no means suddenly becomes all focussed on hiccstrid and all other characters, themes, plot and character development go out the window. So, in conclusion to this terribly long rant (so sorry) stick with me for a bit and I will continue to write what I believe is a good story that I am happy to put here: if you think so too, great! Join me! Anyway, if you made it to the end, congrats, have some very fucked up angst:**

Astrid watched Hiccup go, suddenly trembling. She sank down to the grey kitchen floor and stared uncomprehendingly at a spider crawling along the underside of a cabinet.

 _What was that, bitch? Huh?_

For once, she couldn't answer the sibilant voice in her head, instead choosing to get back up and make some pasta. Maybe the smell of tomatoes and the warm, heavy taste of cheesy comfort food would calm her down.

It didn't.

She took some whiskey out of the cupboard- he didn't care if she drank anyway- and watched it dribble into a glass before downing it in a few deep, bitter gulps. Maybe the fiery, bitter drug coursing through her system would make her feel better.

It didn't.

She felt something was wrong, as she always did. He wasn't home and that could only mean one thing...

Sure enough, there was the door. Banging open like a torn farm gate- ripped and useless to stop the animals. She turned to the sink and tried to busy herself and her mind: ignoring her quivering spine and the footsteps drawing closer.

To her credit, she kept up the act until slurred words that she deemed cursed by the devil hit her and the game was up.

"Amelia? Ameeeliiaaa! Get out here!"

There was no use in lying, she knew she couldn't deal with this and she hated it; she was too frazzled and sore and- there he was. There he was, with his coarse blonde hair and harsh features and blue eyes, objectively not bad for going on 50, and his drunken, hazy smile that only she could hate, and his beer belly and unzipped pants and bedraggled, hole-ridden clothing that they had the money to replace but didn't. He wasn't all that much taller than her, but a great deal wider and when he looked like this- what others may even call vulnerable- he was fucking terrifying.

She took a step back on unsteady legs and the ankles she had trusted through so many adrenaline ridden, too-punishing long runs that her trainer frowned at her after suddenly felt brittle and weak.

Far too soon, large hands caged her arms, stripping her of flight she never had in the first place and making her breaths appear sluggish as she fell away...

 _Soft feet sunk into the sand and she was alone, yet tinkling echoes of childish glee grew, fuzzy at the edges. There was clarity in the scene, though- bright white sunlight blacking out her golden hair as she moved slowly across the beach to the glistening, tranquil ocean. The breeze ruffling her hair turned harsh, tugging at her unsteady legs as a presence appeared behind her and she was pulsing with danger. Shieing away like a frightened colt, she was running and he was making grabs for her, screaming-_

"-Amelia."

No, that wasn't it. She needed noise. The heat was searing from layers of slippery fat as she lay on the cold floor, seeing in black and white as her face was unceremoniously squashed. It wasn't important, anyways.

 _Blaring television provided twinkly, ambient lights as she rested on a sofa of ecru, warm, neutral colours all around. The cup in her hands sent warmth through her body as tendrils of careful steam floated up between her and the screen. A woman laughed, free as the wind. She shuffled her feet in her warm, fluffy socks and there was pressure on her back..._

A hand hooked onto her rib cage like a vice, her lips tasting trodden in mud and dust as she struggled for breath and pretended the wheezing from her mouth was the only sound in the room. She couldn't be alone, she needed someone else...

 _Delightful laughter bubbled from her chest and escaped like a butterfly as she clenched the cushion on her lap, slapping the leather sofa as she fought for breath. Scott started at her, bemused. He had simply been explaining something about training and once again, she was laughing at a joke he didn't make. This was why they didn't talk; they did what they always did when things got awkward: he gently took her wrist and the went to his bedroom, the one full of dark blue, childish red and posters of things she didn't care to detail, and..._

Nope. Just no. That wasn't going to work. Oh boy, that was painful. Panic coursed through her body and she gave a banal wriggle that made her feel like a beached whale. She couldn't do this, couldn't stay here...

Flecks of darkness laced through her vision like the black silhouette of a splintered dancer: turning, turning, turning... Tasteless strands of hair threaded through her mouth and all different kinds of liquids were running down her face. She accepted them. Loud grunts of horrible, dirty pleasure filled the air, contrasting her occasional whimpers of pai- failure. Noise was a failure.

The blackened nails that weren't really black piercing her skin ripped through her ribs, tossing around the last malleable strand of her like a snakeskin, empty and useless. Gnarled claws of normal pink shredded it frantically, like it was the most ugly thing he couldn't get enough of; hands like sharpened spears puncturing hole after hole until the gagging spaces join up and and it's gone- one with the dust and forgotten- ghostly white scars etched into the mahogany wooden floor. Nothing.

She was nothing.

The scent of the him would not be considered offensive by most standards, but to her it was the foulest smell in the world. She vowed that she felt only disgust as he howled out revolting sounds and he pulled taut, yowling his pleasure. He was so loud.

His crushing weight then collapsed on the fragile form beneath him, heavily, painfully. She wasn't delicate at all really, heavy for her size and usually steady but she felt breakable in only one situation. The bodily crunch that didn't hurt as she floated she could deal with- just not the gentle caress like a demon with a feather- a hint at the normal, beautiful version of this pitiful parody, this shambles of an attempt at twisted normality. It wasn't allowed! Pain she could handle, pain and degradation was what this was, she could deal with that. It was a mistake, she told herself. A drunken mistake of a good man but this was not her father. No, this was a monster and they must stay separate. No soft, light touches and definitely no deeply satisfied, coarse voices whispering three cursed words in the ringing shell of her ear:

"I love you."

 **Here we go: rant number two (this is a good day for me). As shown in chapter 5, Astrid has a 'mindscape' to escape to which helps her cope with traumatic situations. As she was already emotionally frazzled, she couldn't get there and stay there in time which is why she'll take a little longer to get over this one. I, myself, created a pretty successful mindscape, and on that note, tomorrow I have to do a scary, stressful, legal thing against my father so if I fall off the face of the planet for a while: I'm fine, just depressed. And no, I'm not going into any more detail than that! Anyway thank you for reading all this, it's a bit of a mess today! Leave a review!**


	14. Blank Paper

**Hello.**

Hiccup curled up on a navy blue beanbag in Fishlegs' room. It was spacious, as were all the rooms in the bungalow and the colours were cool, almost nautical. There was another giant flatscreen TV of some state of the art make playing a video game. You know the ones: with dramatic action and blurs of khaki with slits of colour running around a wasted, muddy landscape.

As far as he was aware, they weren't massively rich but he was pretty sure Fish's father worked with TV's and that this was his only contribution to their family. Trouble was, it was extremely difficult to get Fishlegs to talk about anything shoved in the box 'don't want to talk about it'. Forget getting blood out of a stone, it was more like getting frost out of the sun! If he didn't want, he didn't and, while that meant he was rather a positive person for the only son of a foster parent with an absent father, it also meant that any 'deep and meaningful' conversations were shut right down, and most of the time that suited him just fine. Except he _really_ wanted to talk about Lauren. And Astrid. Definitely Astrid.

He knew next to nothing about pre-Hiccup Fishlegs, except his childhood was a rather scarring experience as apparently, deeply abused, cynical teenagers are not always the nicest people in the world to be around. Who would have though, eh? Oh that and the very potent nightmare involving much screaming and thrashing around.

Fishlegs had three dogs, that stayed clear of him if he stayed clear of them (fucking beasts, they were) all with something chopped off (ear, paw, tail - do they cost less if there's a bit missing?) and a very bad attitude (too many A-team binge-watches). His mother had a bit of a thing for baking, which meant that their house always smelt lovely (a rare oasis amongst his none-too pleasant smelling accommodations) and the fact that she was just so good at it was a bonus! He found that he suspended all his food rules in such a relaxed, calm environment and ate just enough to stop him feeling sick (he still remembers the first time he ever felt full, which was here, and the first time he threw up because he was so full, which was also here.)

Lumbering footsteps, muffled to thuds by the carpet, signalised Fishlegs' return just as effectively as the mounting aroma of chocolate and orange.

He smiled at his friend as he entered, before being distracted by his familiar ringtone (that was far too similar to his history teacher's for any kind of comfort)

"Hello?"

"Oh, hi Hiccup."

"Lauren.. Er what's up?"

"Do you mind awfully looking af-"

Suddenly her soft, almost shaky voice disappeared underneath a horrible crackling sound that almost drowned out a door slam and panting breaths.

Almost.

"Terribly sorry about that! I said do you mind looking after Ellie tonight?"

"I'm at work from seven to nine, but I can do after nine thirty? Is that too late?"

"No that's perfect! Absolutely *pant* perfect."

"Are you Ok?"

"Yeah. All good. Uhm... oh... BYE!"

Brow furrowed, he stared at his suddenly disconnected phone with a comical shell-shocked look that he was informed by a laughing, gargling Fishlegs was 'priceless'.

In the end, he joined in, played video games and stuffed his face with cake for half an hour before running to work and still managing to be 10 minutes late. Throughout his monotonous, exasperating shift, he tried and failed to ignore the niggling feeling that something was very wrong with Mrs Next-door.

oOo

Sweeping himself into a daze and drowning out all his thoughts with pulverising, trashy beats that weren't contained by his headphones, if the dirty looks were an indicator, worked right up until he knocked on an unfamiliar door and it opened.

Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

The smell was powerful, telling of copious alcohol that had not stayed bottled. Finally, the door stopped creaking- leaving a dark, musty hallway in it's place that stung like acid. The tattered, tan 'welcome' mat was kicked askew and clashed horribly with the scene that unfolded at the end of the hallway. All bad things went down in the kitchen, it seemed.

Two human lumps slumped on the floor, one over the other, surrounded by broken bottle and dark red, liquid splodges that the child he came here for smeared over her fingers as she played with the glass and her mother's hair, content in gurgling to herself. A porcelain wrist, marred and shiny with burns stood in stark relief to the dark floor and the couple's dark clothing. This was some kind of modern art- the new kind with coarse, ugly shapes and clashing colours thrusted together with reckless abandon; chaos in an allotted 50 ft.

The heap was still, and like a monster slain in battle it held a presence in the space, something foreign yet so predictable. He looked too large, slumped over her with a brown hand tangled in messy, coarse hair. Still, neither moved. The door creaking, a tap dripping, the boiler whirring clunkily, Ellie gurgling and banging glass against the floor- the cacophony of sounds joined up the make what was a death scene far too loud. Shouldn't it be deadly silent, the earth's memorial to lives lost? He told himself that his feet weren't trembling as he crossed the worn, splintered floors that held three lives he was intruding on - the pipes in the walls were whispering about him.

As if inanimate, he reached down and brushed a stranger's cool skin- did her eyelashes flutter? No. His fingers returned to their work of finding a pulse- did his foot just twitch? No. There was nothing as the stillness stretched out until, yes, he found one. The sluggish tha-thump of the very ill yet it was there. She wasn't dead, neither was he.

With that discovery, he turned his attention to removing shards of glass from the child, he should take her with him anyway. With the first door creak, he was on high alert. This was a dangerous, precarious situational he could not be unguarded. A dark, shadowed figure pushed the door open - nimble, iridescent fingers snatching up a 50p on the windowsill next to the door. He knew what the figure was here for. Suddenly the hooded face turned to him and he heard a breathy curse. Dark, penetrating eyes that may be monochrome and lifeless in the light too, (though it was unlikely) bored through him and they stayed in stalemate until he caught a flash of silver by the man's hip and it was time to run. So he ran, leaving behind two unconscious, unsafe people and a baby to whatever fate.

You know what they say: all the monsters come out at night.

He jumped a fence with only mild difficulty and sped through backstreets, running like an animal chasing prey. Except, he was chasing atonement, freedom, innocence. He was jarring his aching, unfit, unprepared body with every painful step and heaving breath in search of something even he couldn't begin to comprehend.

As he finally stopped running and trudged out into the night, he cast his eyes downwards and finally allowed himself to cry: quiet but ugly.

There was blood on his shoes.

 **Bye.**


	15. Paper Plates

**I think that there was a bit of confusion over the last chapter, it wasn't that dramatic...**

 **\- Lauren's husband got drunk and hit her until they both passed out, leaving the child unattended.**

 **\- When Hiccup comes in, he leaves the door ajar so an opportunistic thief comes in to poke around**

 **\- He thinks he sees a weapon, panics and runs but you can decide whether the thief had one, or was even real!**

 **No one has died (yet), and yes I disappeared again, I am sorry. But here is the aftermath of chapter 13! Enjoy?**

Astrid sat on her bed, swamped by baggy, grey, depressing clothes because the world didn't deserve colour when she felt like this. She stared out of the window with a washed out gaze, seeing but not perceiving the outside world full of roads, streetlights and idle chatter.

Parents tell lies. It's not news.

When she was younger, she knocked on her parents' bedroom door to solemnly inform her mother of the big scary spider crawling across her ceiling. She had smiled, given Astrid a kiss on the forehead and valiantly gone forth to kill it. Yet, it crept across her face in the morning.

Parents teach valuable life lessons, like not to trust a soul and always wear suncream. Like that no one really cares about you and wearing seatbelts are a good idea. And, in Astrid's case, like leave when it gets tough because the man who hurt you would never hurt your tiny, trusting, carbon copy, and of course remember your manners. Yet somehow finding out Santa wasn't real was less crushing than finding out her mother had lied when she said 'I'm coming back '.

Her father was no better. He hadn't cried when she left, he had taken his daughter out for pancakes and they had given a toast with orange juice cartons to a life of fun and opportunities. How it would be okay and he still loved her: just Astrid and her dad. What bullshit.

It was Amelia he whispered in her ear, Amelia he growled into the night and Amelia he gasped like a benediction. Amelia, she pretended, was a different person. After all, her father was not a bad man; he taught her how to ride a bike, pass a maths test, make (mostly) edible food and just how to angle her head so she didn't cut her nose on the floorboards. Well, she taught herself that- but he did present the opportunity. Just like fathers do.

Sure, she was jealous of her mother- who found a way out of hell and took it- but that didn't make them identical. They had the same floppy, fuzzy hair that hadn't got the message that blonde hair was supposed to be _easier_ to deal with and the same manufactured blue eyes that stared at her from every movie cover in existence but that didn't make them duplicates. They didn't wear jewellery, liked milky coffee and baggy shirts but that still didn't mean they were one and the same. Why was that so hard to understand?

Originally, he had stepped up when her mother left- taking her shopping and buying her the purple things that her friends had (until she decided that she hated them) but she never realised there was a clause in the contract that meant when he started doing motherly duties, she had to do... wifely duties.

Well, Amelia did.

He was a good father. She wasn't ever hungry (unless she wanted to be), he didn't check her phone with paranoia or restrict her freedom to make bad decisions, he paid her when she did well at school or with running and on her birthday and he trusted her to do her own homework. Yes, he was a good father.

Just, he was a terrible husband.

Sometimes, she wanted to tell him she loved him. Times like Christmas and late night supermarket trips, where he would make her laugh and they could pretend to be a normal, playful father and daughter- the type that made passerby's coo and old ladies comment to their companion on the sweetness of the scene. Other times, (like after having to lick her blood off his dick) she wanted to walk into his room with a knife and _end_ him, watch him scream and beg and sob like he deserved. She hated him with a passion yet she had no power over him- he laughed at her anger and patted her cheek like she was cute. Astrid Hofferson was not. Cute. _Surprisingly_ , however, her high school reputation meant nothing in his clutches, his perfectly normal, slightly stained nails that weren't blackened, wizened claws slicing through her skin but might as well have been.

Her father confused her, muddled up her brain with his soft 'I love you' and harsh insults of empty curses but he was predictable. Comfortable. Her mother, however...

Her mother had brought her food, blankets, love, protection and nothing but pain. She had been cared for (though she wasn't about to say that love shone through in her mother's final words to her) but in the end she had had to be selfish. They both did; it wasn't like they had a knight in shining armour to save them. Or anyone at all. When she was younger, she had loved her mother. Then, she had hated her. Now, she just understood her and tried not to place the emotion she felt when one of her friends complained about their mother's pickiness. See: parents teach lots of valuable things.

With those valuable, depressed mind-ramblings over with, she rolled over (with less pain than before) and fell into a sticky, restless slumber.

 **I know I said my hiatus was to write more chapters so I didn't have another one… and I haven't yet. I'll admit this is a little bit of a filler while I try to solidify the plot and work out a few details. I'm terribly sorry it's taking so long, but trust me I will finish this. After all, it was my choice to start it. Thank you for sticking around, it means a lot.**

 ***cough* so… would it be cheating for me to ask you to go read my story 'Be Quiet' to help me win the 500 word challenge against B0redSlytherin? Probably? But… do it anyway. :)**


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